


Heart's Desire

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-07
Updated: 2010-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Crickhollow, after Frodo leaves, Merry sits and thinks too much, as usual...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart's Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004 as a sequel to the rather angsty Mind Games. Betaed by Pipspebble.

Silence is painful. The thought pricks at Merry's mind as he watches the smoke from his pipe curl around the still air of the darkened room. It feels close, too close, stifling almost, not cosy as the living room at Crickhollow usually does, but he tries not to think about alternatives. Elsewhere in the world, the night is full of stars, and flying spray, and vast distances opening up on the dark horizon. He shakes his head a little, casting it all away. Silence is memory. And he is not at all sure he wants to encourage painful remembrances of things past, not yet. Not quite yet. But still he doesn't move.

He is quite wide awake, although the hour is late, and the room has grown chill. He can barely see the smoke as he draws deeply on his bowl and lets it trickle from between his lips. The pipeweed glows in the dark, brighter than a star, but red and orange, like dragonfire, and he can see fragments of the leaf writhing in the light as they burn. He blinks, once, and the afterimage is seared on his eyelids. Writhing and burning forever behind his eyes. Impatiently he takes the pipe from his mouth and wishes sometimes his imagination was less vivid.

The embers of the fire glow a deeper red, edged in black, the only other light in the shadowed room, and Merry watches the coals pulse and flicker for long moments before he replaces the pipe in his mouth and draws again. It has gone out, of course it has, and he restrains a mild curse as he reaches for a taper to relight it. The act of stretching forward to the fire makes his shoulders ache and twinge, and Merry has a moment of shock as he realises how long he must have been sitting here unmoving, except to light his pipe. Since dinner at least, and now it must be many hours later.

Pippin has long since retired to bed. Merry can recall his cheery good-night, a touch forced perhaps but well meant, and his own monosyllabic response. He even remembers, now he thinks on it, that Pip stayed up and pottered around him for quite some time after the good-night, but Merry can't remember responding and eventually Pippin went away. He feels a little sorrow for that now. Pip will worry, is worrying already, will probably always worry about him, until he is back to his old self again. Whoever that is. Merry is not even sure he knows anymore.

After all, he has so many selves, how can he be sure which one of them is real? Is he one of the Travellers, famous hero from the Battle of Bywater, tipping his head to hobbit matrons who call out as he passes by in his bright mail? Or is he Master Holdwine of the Mark, with his honour and his deeds, and his friendships with the great and the good of this world? Is he perhaps his father's son, with his duty and his family, binding him so tightly to the Shire that he can barely breathe? Or is he simply Meriadoc, only Meriadoc – and who exactly that is, well, Merry is not sure he can say. Silence is his answer. He can offer only silence tonight, it is all that is within him. And he hopes that Frodo will understand.

Merry stills again, the act of reaching for a brand unfinished. Frodo will understand. Of course he will. That smile he gave them all at the end was full of understanding. Full of terrible pity and dreadful beauty too. It hurt like a cut drawn on the skin, like a fresh bruise, like that sick hollow in the pit of his stomach he had thought was filled with other memories, but always, it seems, there is room for one more. Éowyn's smile comes to him then, as she had looked when he rode with her, her face half hidden in her helm, her smile all the brighter for the doom she carried in her heart, but so painful, still, that beauty. Yet somehow he has never seen her look more lovely since, not even on her wedding day.

Frodo would understand. Or would if he were here, here and not sailing now far away, far across the sea, to the deathless lands, where his terrible beauty will not even be remarkable. There he can rest and heal. At least, Merry hopes he can rest and heal, for after all, if there was not some great and wonderful point to this parting, it would be a terrible thing, would it not? It might seem a punishment after all they had endured, it might seem like he was abandoning those he loved, like he had died and left them, had he not gone away to heal. And that would be awful, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it?

Silence is bitter.

Merry puts down the unlit pipe and knocks the bowl gently against the hearthstone. He taps out the half burnt weed and then sets to cleaning it carefully, before setting it in the rack on the mantelpiece. He takes his time, doing most of the work by feel, and the other pipes, as he runs his fingers gently along the row, searching for a space, make dull clinking noises in the dark. It reminds him of the Pelennor, of Théoden-king, of the moments before the charge, when he took his sword running along the line, for luck, and for farewell. Merry closes his eyes, as he remembers the sound of it all, the stamping of horses, the clink of metal and the overwhelming smell of fear. He remembers their battle-cry, _death_ they had all shouted, over and over again, _death_ – and death had come. He clenches his hands.

He turns and begins to make his way to his room, trailing one hand along the wall, avoiding furniture and being grateful that neither of them has any passion for knick-knacks or mathoms to clutter up their home. _Their home._ The thought stops him in his tracks. It was meant to be Frodo's home once. The first time Merry had visited, he had come here to Crickhollow to prepare everything for Frodo, he'd had Freddy's help, he remembers, and he'd worried about Pippin losing Frodo on the road... It all seems so very long ago. The concerns of that hobbit are like the memories of a stranger. And in the end Frodo had spent only one night here and never returned.

Never to return. They will never see him again.

Merry's fingers brush empty space. Pippin has left his door open, perhaps to listen for Merry when he finally retires, perhaps because he is just Pippin and sometimes is careless still, but as Merry pauses in the doorway and listens, the sound of soft even breathing comes to his ears. It is a peaceful sound, recalling safety and warmth, and a hundred other nights, and makes him smile – at least he still and always has his Pippin, and Merry fondly glances in as he makes his way past to his own room. Then he halts, struck for a moment as if to stone. And the thought crosses his mind, slow as ice, creeping into his heart, _I have been here before._

The room is bathed in moonlight. Pip has also forgotten to draw the curtains and the moon is low, casting silver pale light across the bed, across the form curled up under the quilt, and Merry finds he holds his breath. Pippin's face is in shadow, but his hand has reached out to clutch the moonlight, that's what it looks like, as though he is grasping the light and the coverlet both. His skin is limned in silver, washed in a pale lustre, and he looks almost ethereal, not like flesh and blood at all. His curls spill onto the pillow like a sable flood, it is a study in contrasts, a hobbit carved of marble and jet, not real at all. Not real.

It cannot be real. Merry feels his heart beating faster, and he takes a shallow breath, not the deep gasp he desperately needs, and tries to calm. He holds the doorjamb tightly as another wave of unremembered memory washes over him, and he reels a little. The scent of flowers comes to him then, night blooming jasmine, all out of season, and his nose tickles with... The smell of Elves, how could he forget. There is a trickle of golden laughter, not heard, surely not heard, remembered merely, and the Lady's voice is in his mind, _'your heart's desire, Meriadoc...'_ He shakes his head in denial, in negation, and the laughter fades on a sigh, and is gone. He is just a hobbit in a doorway, holding the frame as though something will break, breathing like he has been running, and watching his friend sleep. That is all.

But Pippin is still there. And it comes to Merry's mind that he does not need to be alone this night. This night of silence and absence doesn't have to be so dark or so empty. This first night home in a world without Frodo could be shared with a friend, as other nights have been, many others, on the road and before. And he is tempted, it would be easy to curl up with Pip, they would wake with the sun in the morning, and Pip would roll over and sleepily blame Merry for not shutting the curtains, and Merry would loudly protest the fault and Pip would poke him in the ribs and demand breakfast in recompense, and they would be laughing, and Frodo's ghost would be a distant echo, laughing with them...

What holds him back? The smell of jasmine is making him feel sick, and Merry dryly swallows. He remembers blue eyes, empty with loss and with a kind of hopelessness, remembers feeling endless guilt that they could not save him, could not save Frodo after all, not for all their trials and care. And he remembers other eyes, ageless and eternal, offering him the world if he will let Frodo down, if he will go back, offering him his heart's desire if he will only lay down the Quest and return home... This is the memory, this is the same memory, that he thought was only a dream, given to him by the Lady in Lothlórien. And he stands in agony, uncertain of his path, unsure and trembling, for surely that choice was made long since and the door was firmly shut, all those fancies put away, and he doesn't know what this means, not now after all this time.

Then he thinks of Frodo's smile. It was accepting, it understood. This was the way things had to be, and he had known that, at the end. All prices had been paid. All of them. And that means...

Merry takes a step into the room. All he wants is to sleep beside him, to not wake alone, to hear his Pip's breathing in the night, and to know he is safe. That is all he wants...

He takes another step, and it is easier than the last one. Surely he can lie beside Pip and watch him sleep? Surely he is allowed to do that? He closes his eyes and behind his eyelids are painted memories of sweet soft kisses and moonlit nights like this one, filled with heat and passion, as distant as dreams. He blinks them away, and his throat aches, but he slips the braces from his shoulders and untucks his shirt. They are not real, but tonight, this night is real, the comfort of curling up next to his Pippin, this is real. He has done so a hundred times, surely he is allowed to once more, on such a night as this. He feels so much, he is all edged emotion, and sharp despair. He is sick of silence, he wants to fill the silence, needs to fill it with something real, the succour of warmth and closeness, to hold off the night. Surely Pippin will understand?

He pads to the edge of the bed and looks down. Pip looks so very young when he sleeps. His hand has curled into a loose fist on the quilt and his skin looks soft and untouched. Merry tries not to think about the scars he knows lace Pippin's torso and the whip marks that have healed to thin red lines on the backs of his legs. They have all paid prices, after all, and he has his own scars. Pip still looks like the sweet lad that has followed Merry for as long as he can remember. The lad Merry has looked for all the days of his life, since he was a child himself. He could fill his life with looking for Pippin.

Merry lets his trousers slip off and pool on the floor and he shivers slightly as the cool night air touches his bare legs. His shirt reaches nearly to his knees and he debates removing that too, before deciding that he needs the protection, the camouflage of imprisoning fabric, his mind skittering off the reasons, his thoughts darting about like minnows in a stream. The quilt makes a rustling noise as he lifts it, and he shivers again as he slips beneath the cover, the sudden warmth almost shocking in its comfort, the bed heated by Pippin's body, the feather mattress moulded down in a slight slope that ends where Pip has curled himself in the exact centre. The still, quiet centre of the world. And Merry smiles a little at his fancy, however true it might be, for the words quiet and Pippin together are not often heard, and anyway, thoughts of Pip always make him smile.

Quietly, carefully, he edges closer. His heart is so full it is a wonder to him that it does not burst, for in his mind he has the wide open dark filled with the lonely cries of gulls, the empty sea, kissed with endless wind, and the moonlight that shines on the water, but in his arms are crisp fresh sheets and the shifting susurration of feathers, and the warm apple vanilla smell of Pippin himself. Merry is wrung with anguish as he thinks of Frodo, for how can any healing be worth giving up this? How can he be happy with only Elves forever? Merry licks brine from his lips and starts slightly, then realises he is crying, silently and slowly, and turns his head into the pillow to wipe his face, for the last thing he wants to do is awaken his sleeping cousin.

Merry creeps closer still and pulls the quilt over his shoulders trying to warm himself, not wanting to wake Pip up with cold limbs either, but holding back from pressing into this well-remembered haven by only the thinnest of margins, holding onto his control, but only just, he wants to bury his nose in Pippin's hair, to breath him in, to make the night go away and become as distant as Frodo. He wants...

He wants more than that. He always has.

The smell of jasmine is back, curling like perfume in his nostrils, and Merry freezes. Elves. Frodo is with her now. They may both be watching white-topped waves glisten in the moonlight, ageless indigo eyes both watching the night. What else might they be seeing, reflected in the water? He looks at the curve of Pippin's back, his caramel curls black and silver in the light, and he _remembers_... He remembers reaching for Pip, and the sleepy green eyes opening and turning to him, the lips parting and reaching up for a kiss. He remembers soft flesh, and the roughness of the scarring on Pippin's side beneath his fingertips as he draws a gentle line from hip to shoulder, and Pip's gasp as he tugs and draws Merry down… He remembers things that have never happened, will never happen, but that did happen, in another world, down another road.

And here he is in that world. He _remembers_ lying here, he remembers this debate, his insecurity and fearfulness. He remembers all of it. He has been here before.

Merry groans and clenches his fists into the sheets. He is shaking a little but feels paralysed and teetering as though he rests on the point of a knife. Should he even be here? For it doesn't matter how often he tells himself that he wants to curl up with Pippin, just like any other night, this is not like any other night. Not at all. He wants to pull Pip into his arms so badly he can taste it, but he is afraid, afraid of the future. Afraid he will lose what he has, and not gain so much more. Afraid he gave away his chance in Lothlórien, afraid it was never there at all, only a dream of the future in the eyes of an Elf, and everyone knows dreams are tricksy things, and fortunes even more so...

He holds himself still, stiff and tense, uncertainty a weight holding him down, and then silently he comes to a decision and begins to shift across the bed, gently easing closer to Pip and curling round him. So be it. Let fortune have its way. Let chance decide, since he cannot. The memories of those hundred other nights cross his mind, when he would curl next to Pippin and listen to him breathe. Thoughts of another hundred nights of doubt and unhappiness are unbearable. If Pip wakes, then Merry will tell him what he dreamed in this moment so many months ago, and if he does not, well, it was never meant to be. And that is all. Merry sighs a little and casts himself loose from all doubt, casts himself into deep water, to sink or swim, their moon-touched depths lapping around his heart.

Pip's nightshirt is of fine cambric, it slides silkily under Merry's fingers as he slips his hand over Pip's side. The warmth of him is blood-heat, to Merry he almost feels scalding as he brings his palm to rest, flat, on Pippin's stomach. He holds his breath as Pippin grunts a little and then moves, rolling slightly, until he leans back against him and his curls tickle Merry's nose. In the moonlight now, his face no longer in shadow, Pip looks as pure as porcelain, delicately moulded, his eyelashes dark on each cheek, and Merry wants to kiss each one, and draw his hand down the curve of his neck to rest over his heart, never to let go.

Instead he tightens his grip around Pip's waist, and leans in a little, the full warm length of Pip now propped against him, their bodies firm and close, the hair on his feet brushing Pip's calves and sending little jolts of guilty pleasure up through Merry's groin, to shiver along his back. He is as close now as he has ever been to pulling Pip down into a kiss that would melt him, and undo him, that would leave no room for doubt or loneliness, that would leave no room for anything more at all, and he scans Pip's face eagerly for signs of waking. Chance and a road not taken. What slender hopes. A fool's hope even. How has he let it come to this?

As anxious now for Pippin's eyes to open as a moment ago he was reluctant, Merry holds still, conscious of the very real and warm body pressed against him, aware of every casual touch, every light pressure, as he has not allowed himself to feel for years now. If nothing else he will have tonight, to hold and lock up in his heart, for this is not an Elvish fantasy, false as a dream, this is real, as real as apples, or sunshine, or the dawning he knows will surely come. And if, after tonight, he seals all such thoughts away, as he must, then at least he will have had this precious hour. It is not enough, not nearly enough, but moon madness touches him tonight and he knows no regrets.

What would Frodo say? If he was watching now? What would he think? And Merry closes his eyes and bows his head until his chin rests on Pippin's cheek, and his lips brush against his temple, softer than moth's wings. The darkness inside threatens to swallow him, great wheeling vaults of remote stars swirl under his breastbone, and he aches, he misses Frodo so much. He would want them to be happy. He would want the world he had saved to carry on, to live the life he could not have. Like Sam with Rosie in Bag End. He would want...

And Pippin stirs. Merry freezes, conscious all over again how close Pip is. He feels the slide of soft skin under his lips as Pippin moves, perhaps to look at him, and Merry is suddenly terrified, despite the promise he's made. The gentle huff of Pip's breath is soft against his face, cold where the tears have dried, and he wonders whether he can bear the curiosity, the scrutiny, whether he can be simply Pippin's Meriadoc any more, and laugh, and shrug this off. He doesn't know if he's strong enough, not tonight.

Then there is the whispering slide of fabric, fine cambric brushing his hand, and rustling against his shirt, and Merry feels Pippin turn and his arm snake round his shoulders. There is a gentle pressure and Merry finds his head resting against a finely muscled chest, the thump of Pippin's heart solid and reassuring under his ear. He takes a gasping gulp of air, like a drowning creature, and clings, lost in the sweeping ocean in his mind's eye, but grounded here, with his Pippin, as he always is. Pip will always find him, he knows that. He knows that.

Slowly, he opens his eyes, almost dazzled in the bright moonlight. Pippin is stroking his hair now, just a little where it is long and hangs past his collar, and Merry shivers, as Pip's fingers almost touch his skin. He can do this, he can tell him… What? That he loves him? Pip knows that. That he dreams about him? That he is the first person he always looks for when he wakes? That in a dream, in another world, they are together, and that for this moment, but for only this moment, they are together in both worlds?

Merry raises his head, the hardest thing he has ever had to do, and stares at Pippin. His eyes are wide, and in this light look black, and reflect the moonlight like shining stars. This close Merry can see the pale freckles that sprinkle Pip's nose, and the beginnings of fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He looks worried, Merry thinks. And older than he should. Older than he looks when he is asleep. But waking gives him animation, makes him more _Pippin_ somehow, even if he is not poking him for once, or grinning with that Tookish gleam in his eye, or any number of things that always and ever make him Pippin. And Merry has a horrible moment of clarity, of revelation, that he will say goodbye to this, his Pippin, without ever once having tasted all it could be, and he'll be left with memories that never were, and the fading scent of jasmine, and in all the long years, however filled with laughter and friendship, he'll always wonder about what might have been...

So without thinking any more he leans and kisses him. It is only an inch or two really, no more than that, an inch or two or a wide gulf over the roaring sea, he can hear it roaring in his ears, but every other sensation is caught up in the softness and wonder that is Pippin. His lips are very slightly parted, in surprise perhaps, and they are warm and alive in ways that make Merry's heart thump, and his hand convulses where it lies clutching at Pippin's side, the fine nightshirt bunching into his fist. If he has only this forever he wants to remember every second of it so he presses into the kiss, lightly flicking his tongue until it grazes teeth, and then drawing back a little and moving his lips until he can taste him, all of him, melting and sleepy, sweet as apples, and uniquely Pippin.

There is a small surprised 'oh' breathed into his mouth, and Merry closes his eyes and finally draws away. The gulf opens up again, if it was ever absent, and the roaring in his ears is as loud as dragons now, or stormy waters pounding furiously at the shore. He lets go of Pippin's nightshirt and pulls himself upright until he sits in the middle of the bed, quilt pooling at his waist, and shivers, suddenly shockingly cold. Blindly he pushes the coverlet away and goes to rise, knowing he has ruined things, knowing he has taken a chance and it has failed, the dragon roars in its lair, and Merry's head pounds, and he is sick with despair and loneliness.

Then a warm figure envelops him, strong arms encircle his chest and a pointed chin, that he knows so well, digs into his shoulder and then turns until a face is buried in his hair, nuzzling into it, and Merry shivers again, for a different reason this time, and the arms tighten about him. It is too much. It is too much to hope for, but as Pippin gently draws Merry back, and lies him down, his hands meanwhile soothing and stroking in soft touches here on Merry's hip, and here on his side, and then in smooth caresses down his back, Merry is sure that it is a dream. He has crossed over, he is in another world, this can't be happening… And then as Pippin leans full length against him and tugs his head towards his own, Merry decides that if he is, he wants to be here, he wants this, oh, he has dreamed of this... Insistently Pippin's mouth urges his own into response, and all Merry can feel is intense warmth under his lips and the taste of Pippin filling him, as their tongues tangle, and goose bumps that flow up Merry's back and into his hair, and he groans aloud.

He consists of sensations only, he is a hobbit made of touches, where his hip lies firm next to Pippin's, where a rising hardness maddeningly brushes his shirt, where Pip's hand is drawing circles on his back, where his lips are trailing now down Merry's throat, and nipping at his neck. Uncertainly he raises his own hand and tentatively draws it along Pip's side, feeling the slight bumps and weals of scarring under the thin material, and the fine muscle beneath. Pippin pauses in his kissing then, and Merry feels a stab of doubt, that is forgotten, and cast into the night, as Pip wriggles closer and Merry can feel an answering hardness pushing urgently against his hipbone.

All else is forgotten now in the urgency of the moment. Pip takes his shirt and pulls it up and Merry raises his hands and squirms loose, and then quick as a flash, Pip drags his own nightshirt over his head and discards it into the night, and as quickly reaches for Merry again. There is nothing now between them except thin underlinen and as Pip leans and pushes it down, first Merry's, and then his own, Merry gasps with the intensity of it all, he is a hollow shell that is filled to brimming with Pippin, with moonlight, with the night turned as hot and molten as dragonfire. He pulls Pippin towards him, unable to bear his absence another second, and as they touch, he bucks, just a little, unable to help himself, he has wanted this for so long, and he bends his head and bites gently along Pippin's shoulder, which is musky and slightly salty, and smells so wonderfully of Pippin.

Then all is hot moist breath, and urgent flesh, and building tension. They fit so well together, Merry always knew they would fit together, and as slick hardness rubs and slides deliciously, that is enough, nearly, just the feel of Pippin hot against him, nearly enough to bring him then and there. He hardly needs the questing fingers, so warm, that envelop him with sweet delicious pressure and make him reach to fill his own hands with Pippin, to give pleasure even as he receives it. He abandons himself in all of it, not thinking any more, lost but not alone, touching another world, a better world, holding on to each sensation so tightly it almost hurts, and as the wave rushes in and breaks upon the shore, he cries out Pippin's name, his voice as high and thin as a gull's, and hears Pip moan into his ear in response as he too peaks, clutching at Merry with strong fingers that anchor him, that always have and always will.

Their breathing slows and they lie still. Merry has buried his head in the juncture of Pip's neck, one arm still around him, his heart beating hard but slowing to normal, and he is content to hold on, unwilling to break the moment. Their legs are tangled and as Pippin begins to stir, his foot hair brushes Merry's knee, and Merry prickles all over, his skin is still so sensitive. There is the slightly sticky slide of cooling fluid and reluctantly, as Pippin moves to clean them up, Merry shifts away, watching him find the discarded nightshirt, miraculously nearby, and swipe once, twice, until all evidence is gone, wiped away as though it has never been. He has a swooping moment of doubt, closing his throat in fear, this has to be a dream, and he will wake soon, still in the living room, and the fire will be burned out and his pipe will have fallen to his lap, tipping ash onto his waistcoat, and he will raise his head in the gloom and nothing will have changed – but then Pippin comes back into his arms, turning his back and curling in, and pulling Merry's arm over him like a blanket and holding his palm to his heart. He leans down, Merry can see the fine hairs on the back of his neck part to show the nape, so pale and vulnerable, and his breath catches in his throat as Pippin kisses his fingertips gently, almost tickling, and then settles down, and is almost instantly asleep.

Merry feels like laughing. That is so like Pippin. He could sleep anywhere, and frequently has. Fleeting memories of Quickbeam's house come to him then, and worse places. He understands, of course he does, Merry too can feel the insistent tug behind his eyelids pulling him down at last, and he wonders, just before he gives in, how much he has imagined this night – the smell of jasmine, the Lady's voice, even his own memories, insubstantial as they are? But not Frodo's absence. He is gone beyond question, beyond the sea, and Merry knows they will never see him again. He tugs Pippin closer and pulls the quilt over them both, warding off the sudden chill. Yes, Frodo is gone, although never forgotten. That is true beyond doubt, beyond question. It hurts him still to think on it, but the thought of Frodo sailing towards healing, across a moonlit sea, the stars shining down upon them both, Merry here in Crickhollow and Frodo there upon the endless ocean – somehow these thoughts don't hurt as much as once they did.

He looks at Pippin lying in his arms, the graceful limbs relaxed in sleep, the tip of his ear showing pale through the smoky cloud of his hair, and he marvels at the strangeness of the world. He will remember this night now, for so many reasons, not all of them painful. Oh Frodo… And hesitantly Merry leans his head a little and kisses Pip's shoulder, the flesh warm and sweet, and wonders a little what the future will bring. He should worry, surely he should worry? But he is tired, so very tired, and feels drained of all important thoughts, and decides that everything, even worry, can wait until the morning.

And as Merry finally allows himself to slip into sleep, deep and fathomless, he almost hears an amused whisper in his mind, surely remembered, only remembered, that he too will never be forgotten… Merry's mind is fuzzy with fatigue, but a stab of concern pins him none the less. There is silvery laughter in his head, that wraps him in comfort like a babe, until he lets go and starts to sink once more into slumber. On the edge of hearing, so faint he cannot be sure he hears it at all, a voice murmurs his name, smiling. Merry, do not worry, for you have paid your price… Or will... He struggles to hear, for it must be important, but at last he gives up the fight and falls away forever into endless night. And fond laughter follows him down into fractured dreams of hissing spray, and the scent of jasmine, and blue, blue eyes...


End file.
